


A Certain Magic

by hogwartshoney



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-15
Updated: 2015-01-15
Packaged: 2018-03-07 15:19:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3176712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hogwartshoney/pseuds/hogwartshoney
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a certain magic to New Orleans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Certain Magic

**Author's Note:**

> Written for daily_deviant's Kinky Kristmas Fest on InsaneJournal.
> 
> Originally posted here: http://asylums.insanejournal.com/daily_deviant/613461.html
> 
> Many thanks to betas Islandsmoke and Charmed310. Any remaining mistakes are mine.

There’s a certain magic to New Orleans.  
  
Some say it’s the lure manufactured by the hotel chains and other tourist centres to make something magical out of nothing, and that may be possible, but there’s also a bone-deepness to the old magic of Louisiana, something that Muggles would in no way be able to touch.  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
You’ve finally recieved the information you requested about the new case you’ve been offered. Lisa, that godsend of an office manager of yours has done wonders with culling only the relevant details for you to look over and then present to Harry.  
  
You push open the door to your offices, the little thrill of pride the same as it always is at the name “Potter & Weasley, Investigators” embossed on the opaque glass. You hadn’t believed Harry when he’d said that you and he should work together. The war had left you damaged, and you’d wondered at first whether you’d be any use to anyone. Harry had thought quite differently and forced you to see his point of view.  
  
It’s late, but you know that Harry will still be in the office, his intense focus honed on the project he’s involved with. You’ve asked him about it in passing, but he always seems to side-step the question or turn the topic to something else. You’d pursued it once, just a bit, and he’d said it was just something that had been puzzling him for a while. He said it wasn’t anything to do with your cases, just something he’d come across and that it was ‘kinda personal’.  
  
Right. Yup. Personal’s good. Personal’s fine. He’s your mate, sure, but blokes don’t really talk about personal things anyway, so you just let him be. You’re not unduly concerned but you still can’t help but wonder what could be that important that it takes up so much of his spare time.  
  
The door’s open, and a quick glance shows your best friend seated at the desk, his dark head bowed, apparently absorbed in the thick tome in front of him. You wish that he would simply put it to rest, but you know that his dogged determination will keep him going long after other men would have given up. It’s something that you admire greatly about him, even though it troubles you that he doesn’t seem able to let things go.  
  
He’s become particularly committed to it in the past few months, ever since you both caught Dolohov in that back alley in Twickenham.  
  
You’d seen the spell rushing towards you, almost displacing the very air as it did so, and you hadn’t needed to hear the incantation to know that it was going to be a bad one. You’d spun a series of protection spells around yourself in a tight latticework pattern that you’ve favoured – a little trick that Mad-Eye’d mentioned one night at Grimmauld. “Latticework is the key, lad. Cast a non-linear network of defensive spells, like a mesh, and it’ll deflect most of the spells cast on you, especially if you don’t know what they are. Constant Vigilance!”  
  
Old Mad-Eye. He pretty much terrified you, but he’d taught you some tricks that have saved your life many times over.  
  
Your latticework pattern had worked, for the most part, but the offensive spell had managed to burn through a large piece of it, narrowly missing you as you dodged its trajectory. You were spinning around to re-cast when your ankle twisted badly, not broken, but painful enough to drop you to the ground, hard, and you’d faltered there for a split second. Harry, instead of putting the bastard down first, had cast a ridiculously powerful shielding spell over you, blanketing you in bright light and a feeling of warmth and calm, and it seemed as though time itself had slowed. You’d done nothing more than blink at him, and he at you for what seemed like a long moment as a vibration hummed in the air, and you’d felt… protected. Coveted. Safe… and then he’d whirled furiously and cast one of the strongest binding spells you’d ever felt, and it hadn’t even been aimed at you. Dolohov had been flat on the ground immediately and hadn’t moved an inch even as he was carted away by the Aurors.  
  
Since then, though, you’ve noticed a change in Harry, a drive to work that sometimes borders on desperation. You’re concerned for him, and hope that this new case can help him at least put a little distance between himself and whatever has him so obsessed.  
  
“Hi, Harry.”  
  
It takes him a moment, but he straightens and smiles at you, rubbing at his eyes as he stifles a yawn. “Hey, Ron.” His eyes flick to the papers you hold. “Anything interesting?”  
  
You lean against the wall near to the window, wondering how best to couch the scant details of the report into something that Harry will feel favourably towards. Old magic. Ghosts behaving unusually. Potential danger to Muggles.  
  
“Yeah. We might have a job.”  
  
“Okay, so why that face?”  
  
Damn, and you’d tried for an air of nonchalance. There’s nothing for it now, and you shrug as you hand him the documents. “It’s in America. New Orleans.” (Harry doesn’t like to travel.)  
  
“Louisiana?”  
  
You nod, knowing that, despite the many times you’ve tried to stack the odds in your favour with regard to the jobs you’ve taken in the past, Harry has to have ‘a feeling’ about any project you undertake together.  
  
You trust your own gut feelings, which are usually a solid indicator for what’s dangerous and what’s … less so, but Harry’s intuition is scarily accurate. Hermione likes to say that it was the Felix Felicis he’d drank all those years ago, and that some of the luck had stayed with him, but you disagree.  
  
Harry’s always had luck, of a sort.  
  
He turns all his focus to the pages you’ve handed him, but you know the details already, having studied them on the way to the office, so you study his face instead. You catalogue the way his eyes narrow behind his glasses, the habitual squint still there despite the magical perfection of the prescription lenses. You take in the way his hands hold the paper, casually yet carefully, his fingers gentle as they shuffle the pages around. There’s all this latent magical energy thrumming below the surface of him, so much power just resting there in the body of one man, and he handles it with such care and restraint.  
  
It’s very lucky for the world that Harry is a good person. A second Voldemort, this time even more powerful, would have been the end of all things.  
  
Harry doesn’t take long to read through the three-page report, then he grunts softly as he stands and stretches. You watch the way he walks towards the window and peers out at the rain, falling gently, relentlessly, muffling sounds and soaking everything with no sign of stopping. The world is silent save for the faint sound of his exhales gusting softly from his parted lips. You know you shouldn’t be looking at Harry’s lips in  _that_  way, or at any part of him, really, but you’ve been so gone for your best friend for entirely too long now, and looking’s all you’re able to do.  
  
You’ve been acutely  _aware_  of Harry since your first days at Hogwarts, seemingly a lifetime ago, and you’ve been together as friends for over twenty years, but it was only after Harry’s failed relationship with Ginny and the few others that followed, and your own brief but nonetheless doomed engagement to Hermione that you had  _finally_  taken stock of the situation.  
  
Your friend hadn’t been happy. You… hadn’t been happy.  
  
Never let it be said that you aren’t an intelligent bloke. Next to Hermione, everyone else seems as dumb as a post, and you’re not ashamed to admit that, but you have a keen eye for details when the subject matter suits you.  
  
Certainly Harry had appeared to be happy; Merlin knows he’d smiled and laughed easily enough, met with friends both mutual and personal, and seemed on the face of things to be an absolutely normal  ~~Boy~~  Man Who Lived. Given that there is nobody else who can say that they’ve had similar life experiences other than the three of you plus the remaining members of Dumbledore’s Army, you simply felt that Harry might have been having trouble… connecting with people.  
  
Female people.  
  
Now, you would have been the first to say that you’d only wanted Harry’s happiness, and if a female had appeared on the scene and made that happen for your mate, then you’d … well, then you’d have tamped down on your own desires if it meant that Harry could have had a happy life.  
  
You’d known in your heart, though, that you’d've rather burned out your own magic than have that happen.  
  
All throughout your Hogwarts years, when Harry’d thrown himself into danger repeatedly, you’d been at his side through most of them, but in fourth year, when Harry’s name came out of the Goblet and you’d felt that he was on the verge of being taken away from you, that had been the first time that the low-burning feelings for him had become amplified into something bigger.  
  
You hadn’t been happy either.  
  
You’d wanted something more.  
  
You’d wanted  _him._  
  
  
You’re brought out of your musings as Harry clears his throat and finally moves away from the window. You’ve lost track of how long you’ve both stood there, but Harry seems to have made a decision.  
  
“I don’t know where you find these things, Ron, but I have a feeling about this one.”  
  
“Yeah, mate, but is that a good feeling or…”  
  
He flashes a grin, a rarity these days, and for a moment you’re so blindsided by it that you almost miss his next words.  
  
“It’s a good feeling, Ron. It’s good enough.”  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
Three days later, all preparations have been made. Lisa greets you at the door with a cup of tea and two files. She’s blindingly efficient, and you’re still not sure how you’ve both managed to keep her on. She keeps going on about her loyalty to the man who saved everyone, but really, it doesn’t _seem_  like hero worship, it just seems that she’s genuinely thankful.  
  
Either way, it’s been five years since she started working with you and Harry, and she keeps the place running at an admirable pace. She matches stride with you through the passage to the office you share with Harry, briefing you along the way.  
  
“…and your hotel booking is confirmed. I’ve put you both at a place in the French Quarter, very Muggle in appearance although the Manager is a Wizard, but it’s discreet enough that your comings and goings shouldn’t be noticeable. There’s a small fireplace on the Floo Network in the Manager’s office but the connection is less than reliable, due to the abundance of old magic in the area. The authorities suggest that you don’t try to Apparate as the deeper magics tend to play havoc with directional spells. You’re both going to have to go Muggle on this one, I’m afraid.”  
  
You nod, half listening while enjoying your tea, until…  
  
‘What’s that?”  
  
“Why don’t you listen to me, Ron?”  
  
“I  _do_  listen to you”, you say, just a little wounded, as thoughts of Hermione’s exasperated expression and narrowed eyes spring all too readily to mind. “Something about a Muggle convention...”  
  
She gives you her patented Extremely Exasperated Sigh and continues as though you’ve said nothing.  
  
“I said, there’s some sort of convention taking place this weekend so many of the hotels are booked solid. I’ve managed to get you the one remaining room...”  
  
You nod, pretending to listen as you go over the lists in your head and the plans to be made before you depart later. You’re not worried – Lisa’s always extremely efficient, and in the grand scheme of things, you suppose there’s time enough to figure it out once you get there.  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
The International Portkey drops you off in an alley behind the hotel. You’ve both since mastered the landing (although you still smile fondly remembering Harry’s first Portkey trip at the Quidditch World Cup in fourth year), and Harry remembers to save the object - a packet of chewing gum this time - for the return journey. You take your suitcase out of your pocket and reverse the Shrinking Charm as Harry does the same before walking the short distance around to the front of the hotel. It’s been a long night for you both, ensuring that your plans were finalized and that everything was in place, and even though you caught the Portkey at two o’clock Saturday morning in London, it’s just past eight o’clock Friday evening, New Orleans-time. There are many Muggles walking about and the faint sounds of music echo in the distance.  
  
The hotel’s style, like most buildings you see, is quite ornate, with balconies and columns lining the streets and bright flowers in baskets attached to the light poles. It’s all rather festive, and you remember from Lisa’s briefing that New Orleans is always ready for a party.  
  
Your hotel is painted in shades of green with white trim, and the doors swing open as you enter, the doorman tipping his hat jauntily to you as he bids you good evening.  
  
The foyer and reception area is as grand as the outside of the building, huge columns stretching upwards to support the coffered ceiling. Enormous chandeleers hang over a seating area in the middle of the great room, and it lends itself to an air of old distinguished opulence.  
  
It’s really bloody brilliant, and this is just the front hall.  
  
Harry is already speaking with a man at the reception counter, and he turns to smile at you as you approach. You think he’s maybe a bit amazed at the place too.  
  
“Gentlemen, welcome to the Bourbon Orleans Hotel. We’re very pleased to have you with us; I just need your signatures here and here, and Laurent will be happy to assist you with your luggage.”  
  
Harry grins as he signs his fake name, and you do the same as you inscribe ‘Roonil Wazlib’; still funny after all these years.  
  
Laurent, meanwhile, has taken your bags and is waiting near the elevators, and once Harry has finished with the reception you both follow him up to what turns out to be the top floor. The hallway is no less impressive than the foyer, with deep lush carpet underfoot and elaborate wallpaper interspersed with plants or flowers in vases. Lisa has really gone all out on this assignment!  
  
Laurent opens the double-doors to your…. Suite? and deposits your suitcases at the foot of the bed. You’re taken aback for a moment, initially because of the splendour of the room, but also because of the silver serving tray on the bed,  _the large single bed_  with a bucket of ice housing a bottle of champagne, two champagne flutes as well as chocolate-covered strawberries and a plate of cheese, crackers and fruit.  
  
“Umm, Harry…” You don’t know whether to be amused or confused… but you’re confused anyway.  
  
“Hold on a tic, Ron,” and you turn in time to see him give Laurent some Muggle money. Oh, right, the tip. Thank goodness for Harry remembering these details.  
  
You try again. “Harry, mate, what’s all this?”  
  
He grins. “You’d wondered why the check in staff were being so deferential, and now you have your answer.”  
  
“Harry, they think that we’re together.” You say the words slowly, mainly to ensure that you get them out correctly because despite everything you’ve told yourself you won’t ever have, they can’t possibly-  
  
“Yes, Ron. Obviously.”  
  
“What?” Your stomach’s doing ridiculous things - Harry can’t be serious!  
  
“Well, we’re sharing the only available room left. Single bed, suite, obviously Lisa had to make it seem believable.”  
  
You stand there, blinking, probably looking very stupid while doing it, but…. Harry’s just off-handedly alluded to your being…  _together, in **that**  way,_ as though it’s completely natural. An everyday occurrence.  
  
You brain isn’t sure it’s ready to cope with this, and your heart’s racing just a bit, not in alarm, not exactly, but… it’s something you just hadn’t expected. Ever.  
  
“Is that going to be a problem, Ron?” He’s looking at you with an expression that’s maybe half concern and half… something else. Almost hesitancy, if you had to put a name to it. But why should it be a problem anyway? From his point of view, everything’s completely normal, and it’s not as though you didn’t share a dormitory all your Hogwarts years, share a room when he’d visit at the Burrow, hell, you’d even shared a tent while on the Horcrux hunt … no, on the surface, there’s nothing wrong at all.  
  
The fact that you have half a boner just thinking about it is perhaps beside the point? Or very much the point, depending on which side of the argument you’re standing.  
  
The silence has stretched on a bit too long, hasn’t it, and Harry’s beginning to look more wary and maybe a bit embarrassed, or something very much like it. You can’t have him thinking you’re repulsed by him, or in any way phobic about… anything to do with anything.  
  
“No, of course not, Harry. Blimey, it’s late, and I guess I just didn’t listen to Lisa when she was briefing me. Thought I’d have more room for my clothes, that’s all,” you say, a bit weakly to your own ears, but Harry smiles and looks as though he’s convinced.  
  
“Shrinking charms, Ron,” he says with that impish grin you love.  
  
“Old magic, Harry,” you shoot back, and then you’re both laughing like you used to on the first day back at Hogwarts after summer vacation.  
  
You and Harry make quick work of the fruit and cheese, finishing the bottle of champagne in record time, but then decide to just get some sleep. The champagne’s doing a fine job of relaxing you, and you’re really quite knackered. Harry busies himself in the loo, but you barely manage to get your shoes off before you’re falling face-first into the utterly decadent bed.  
  
This is going to be fine, you think as your body relaxes and your mind starts to drift into slumber. Harry’s your best mate, and there’s nothing to worry about.  
  
You’re going to be  _fine_.  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
Saturday morning, you wake slowly, but soon come to realize that things are the opposite of fine, for any given value of fine, as you find yourself flat on your back being  _slept on_  by Harry. In itself, that’s not such a bad thing, really, and you take a moment to just revel in the sound of him breathing, the warmth of his skin and how good it feels to be held by him.  
  
In the next moment, however, you realize that your cock has taken extreme interest in the proceedings and you have to get out of there quickly. Bleedin’ hell, this wasn’t the plan at all!  
  
You half-turn and shake him on the shoulder before rolling quickly out of the bed, grabbing the blanket with you. It doesn’t matter that you’re still clothed; the blanket’s needed to hide the obvious tent in your trousers.  
  
“Harry, time to get up, mate.” You clear your throat, but your voice is still rough with sleep. You’re hoping for a nonchalant and normal tone of voice. Normal is good.  
  
He wakes with a start, blinking for a moment before reaching for his glasses on the side table. He looks up at you, all sleep-rumpled and just delicious, bare-chested, the sheet barely covering his hips. You know that he’s wearing pyjama bottoms, but the memory of all that skin on yours, so warm and close… your stomach dives as you realize that you’re so far from normal it’s not even amusing. Fuck.  
  
“Time is it?” Harry doesn’t wake well. You remember that now; he usually needs a few minutes before coming fully awake, and to avoid looking at him you grab the restaurant menu from the desk. Oh, thank Merlin, they’re open for breakfast until noon.  
  
“Just after ten,” and your voice is unreasonably husky, dammit. “I thought we should get some breakfast downstairs before we head out. It’s- I’m going to take a shower first, if you don’t mind.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah, sure, just let me hit the loo first.”  
  
You nod. Obviously a man has to relieve himself first thing in the morning. Your prick hasn’t received that memo, though, and it’s still hard as anything under the bundle of the blanket. In fact, just the thought of him taking himself in hand in the lav is enough to further interest your treacherous libido, and over something as unsexy as that.  
  
 _Merlin, it’s going to be a long week._  
  
You eventually get downstairs to breakfast just after half past eleven, and it proves to be a fine affair, done to extravagance as the Americans do. You moan with delight as the taste of apple-wood smoked bacon combines with scrambled eggs and potatoes. Harry’s amused grin only lasts until he tucks into his own breakfast, fried eggs with sausage and something called Southern grits. His eyes flutter closed, and the look of pleasure on his face makes it hard for you to swallow, just for a moment. He hasn’t even taken the fork out of his mouth yet, and your eyes lock on the sight of those lips puckered around the utensil-  
  
 _Must stop thinking inappropriate thoughts!!!_ You clear your throat and try to focus on the business at hand, ignoring the heat of your face and the way your heartbeat has quickened.  
  
The plan is to visit Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop, the scene of the reported problem. The Manager’s complaint listed extremely unusual magic, an ominous presence within the building and changes in the behaviour of their resident ghost. Harry’d agreed with your idea of visiting the pub incognito at first, to see what, if anything, happens, and then speak with the owner about his actual complaints later. He had suggested (amusingly, you’d thought) that you’d both need ‘cover stories’, like the detective shows his Muggle relatives would watch on the telly. He’d described elaborate backstories, which were funny, but ultimately you’d both decided to just stick to the basics; two friends on vacation exploring the French Quarter in search of some fun.  
  
But really, that’s what you  _are_ , or at least, that’s what you’d thought. The ‘honeymoon’ suite at the hotel, though… that sends quite a different signal. You focus on Harry, who’s finishing his breakfast with great flourish, and again wonder just what you’re going to do about that situation. Contrary to Hermione’s opinion, you  _do_  have more emotional range than a teaspoon, thank you very much.  
  
Finally, Harry’s finished, and you both make your way outside and along Bourbon Street in the direction of Lafitte’s. You both don the sunglasses that Lisa insisted you take. You’d agreed as a bit of a lark, but she’s right, as usual, as the sun seems particularly blinding. It’s a bit of a walk to the tavern, but the sun out and there’s a fair breeze blowing, and the fullness of your belly makes it a comfortable jaunt.  
  
You feel an undercurrent beneath your feet as you walk, almost as though the street itself gives off an energy of excitement. There are certainly enough Muggle tourists around to support that vibe, though, and as you weave through the crowds and onto the street, dodging the occasional horse-drawn buggy, your attention is caught by so many sights that you forget about the feeling.  
  
After walking for ten minutes or so you come across a fairly nondescript greyish building with multiple doors leading out to the street. Harry nods towards it and the Muggles gathered outside on the pavement with drinks at their tables or in their hands.  
  
You enter the tavern first and notice immediately that there isn’t the typical buzz of Muggle electricity. It’s a bit rustic inside with an exposed beam ceiling and a long bar built from old darkened bricks and topped with worn wooden planks polished to a high sheen. You can see security cameras and some machines behind the bar that seem to be run by electricity, but for the most part, the dining areas are lit only by candles and the occasional lantern. It’s surprisingly cool inside the tavern, and it reminds you a bit of Snape’s Potions’ classroom. You’re about to mention that when you notice that Harry is already heading towards the bar, so you choose a spot near to the wood-burning fireplace.  
  
The small round table turns out to be rickety and quite old, much like everything else in the place. The chair creaks ominously as you sit and survey the room, taking note of the myriad of bottles haphazardly lining the shelves against the wall at the back of the bar.  
  
It’s not long before Harry joins you, complete with two tall glasses filled with what looks like frozen purple mush. He puts them down reverently as he flops into one of the chairs, gesturing to the concoctions with a flourish. The ‘ta-da!’ is implied.  
  
“Hey, mate. Any luck with finding unusual magical signatures near the bar?”  
  
“Not a one, but Ron! You have to try this, it’s bonkers!”  
  
You’re a bit surprised at Harry’s utter disregard for The Plan, but he’s grinning widely and looks years younger. For a moment, you could almost be back at the Three Broomsticks as young men, just after the war, waiting for Ginny and Hermione to join you. You smile ruefully for a moment and then take a good look at the glasses – the base is a skull about the size of your hand, its mouth open as though laughing, and from the top of the head, the rest of the glass stretches. The entire thing is maybe a foot tall, the word “VOODOO” etched in white on the front, and it’s filled to capacity with a slushy purple drink.  
  
“Harry. Just what exactly is this?”  
  
“The bartender says it’s their signature drink. Called a Voodoo Daiquiri. Potent stuff, if I’m to believe the Muggles at the bar.”  
  
“What’s in it?”  
  
“Bourbon, grape juice and something called 190.”  
  
You take a tentative sip. It’s sweet, and very cold, and the alcohol burns your throat, but the frostiness soothes the sting nicely. Bourbon, you’ve had before, but not like this. Yeah, not dangerous at all. What the hell, time to let loose a little.  
  
Harry grins as he raises his glass, and you both toast your health, and the ’vacation’, and being in America - you’re off to a good start. After a while, the drink doesn’t burn the way it used to, and you settle into your role, enjoying the mixture of tastes and the wonderful cold.  
  
Muggles come and go, as do more drinks, and presently the tavern is full of jovial tourists and other vacationers. There’s no sign of any ghosts or obvious magical signatures, but you didn’t actually expect to get so lucky the very first time.  
  
Conversations are begun, laughter is shared, the drinks flow like water and you’re having a brilliant time. A brilliant, brilliant time. Harry’s smiling more than you’ve seen him do in a long while, he’s clapping you on the back, you’re both shaking hands with the throngs of fellow drinkers, laughing when they ask you to “say something in that accent” and obliging them over and over.  
  
Finally the crowd thins, and Harry mentions something about getting back to the hotel. The bartender – Gus, you’ve learned after your many trips to and from the wooden-topped bar – suggests a horse and buggy ride back, and you’re a bit unsteady on your legs, so you gladly agree.  
  
Harry doesn’t need much convincing – he’s even less capable of standing properly – and you sling your arms around each other and carefully make your way into the carriage. After what feels like no time at all, you’re back at the hotel, remembering to pay the driver, then holding on to each other for support as you negotiate the foyer, elevator, and eventually the hallway to your room at the end.  
  
Harry manages to get the plastic thing in the lock after about nine tries, and finally,  _finally_  you stumble into the room together. You peel off your shirt and denims and flop onto the bed, groaning as your head swims. Harry’s saying something about water or maybe he needs to use the loo, but you’re barely aware of what he’s saying as you close your eyes, just for a sec.  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
Merlin’s pants, your brain is on fire! Even the mental exclamation point hurts.  
  
“Fuuuuuck, that’s a sneaky drink.” Harry whimpers from beneath the pillows.  
  
“Treacherous,” you moan, expecting your head to actually explode at any moment. No wonder the skull on the glass was laughing, that bastard; laughing at your misery, no doubt. You curse in your mind; saying anything too loudly just makes the pain explode inside your head, and you REALLY don’t want to be sick.  
  
You bury your head in the pillows and wait to die.  
  
Some indeterminable time later you hear Harry’s muffled voice. You must have dozed off despite your headache and nausea because he’s shaking you awake very very carefully.  
  
“C’mon, mate, I got us room service. They have a special menu for hangovers.”  
  
You take a deep breath and brave the world outside your pillow cave to find that the curtains are pulled tightly closed and the delicious smell of chicken soup wafts through the room. You sniff cautiously and, on closer inspection, notice that there are tiny noodles floating in the liquid, as well as packets of crackers and a couple bottles of Club Soda and something called Powerade.  
  
Your stomach, roiling mere moments before, suddenly growls in appreciation and you follow Harry’s lead, tucking into the soup gratefully.  
  
“Harry, never again, mate.”  
  
“Never,” he whispers.  
  
You’d laugh if you didn’t feel so awful, and he cracks a smile that’s painful to watch, and then you’re both chuckling because you can’t help it, and then moaning and clutching your heads, which makes you laugh even more.  
  
There’s a soft knock on the door, and you open it to find one of the porters with two vials of a very familiar rich golden colour on a silver tray.  
  
“Sir, good morning. With the Manager’s compliments.”  
  
Despite your still-impressive headache, you almost snatch the vials from the tray, restraining yourself only at the last moment, muttering a hasty ‘Thanks’ as you close the door and shuffle towards Harry.  
  
“Merlin be praised, a hangover potion!”  
  
  
You’d be more than happy to give Lafitte’s a wide berth today, but you’re here to work, after all, and the tavern’s northern wall is reported to be the epicentre of whatever’s gone awry with the magic.  
  
Harry’s still looking a bit worse for wear, even after the potion, so you get ready slowly, enjoying a long shower and a proper shave, doing it the Muggle way since you’re not sure how well your magic will work. You’re using something the Muggles call a ‘safety razor’, which means that you won’t cut yourself too badly should your hand slip, but you still take extra care to move the head smoothly along your neck. After a while, the door opens, and Harry steps into the bathroom.  
  
“Hey. You still alive in here?”  
  
You just hum in response – you’re shaving the last bit of the tiny patch of hair under your lower lip – wouldn’t do to get cut there. You finish, and turn to smile at him.  
  
“I’m taking my time with this razor. Don’t want to get any Muggle injuries now.”  
  
“Just checking, mate. It’s been half an hour since you started, after all,” he says with a laugh.  
  
You expect him to leave after that. He’s not in your way, exactly, and nothing’s awkward at all; you just assumed he’d go back into the bedroom and let you finish, but he stays, leaning his hip against the countertop and watches as you finish up the final strokes along your neck.  
  
You’ve both shared bathrooms before, often getting ready in haste at Hogwarts and again while on the run during the Horcrux hunt; Merlin knows there wasn’t any room for privacy then, really, but you can’t help but notice the way he looks at you as you shave. He’s still bare-chested, and whereas ordinarily you’d make a point to not notice him, recently you can’t stop your eyes from straying. He’s nicely muscled, nothing too big or out of proportion, but very well put together, with a light smattering of hair around his nipples and in a line down past his navel. You’ve never really thought specifically about your preference for the male form, and Merlin scratch your eyes out for even thinking it now, but when it’s presented in front of you, when it’s just  _there_  for the looking, sadly not for the taking…  
  
Is it because you’re self-conscious? Or finally acknowledging your own feelings for him? You can’t be sure, but you’re hyperaware of his every move and breath in the sudden silence, and he seems to be a much larger presence than usual, especially in such a relatively small space. It’s also getting warm, not that it hadn’t been pleasantly so before, but with the two of you in there, standing so close-  
  
“Thank Merlin for potions, eh?”  
  
You huff in agreement and relief that the silence is broken, feeling immensely sorry for Muggles who don’t have the luxury of instant hangover relief. The way you’d felt before the soup arrived, and even after, it was just…. ugh.  
  
“We can’t do that again, Harry. We’re here to work.”  
  
There’s silence again, so you glance over at him, and he has this strange expression. You wouldn’t call it disappointment, nor does it seem apologetic, but you’d say….  _pensive_ , if you had to label it. Maybe there’s a little disappointment after all.  
  
“I know, Ron. I just wanted to relax for once and simply be who we were supposed to be. It felt really good to do that.”  
  
You nod. It  _had_  felt good to be just two regular chaps out for a pint (or several) at a pub, crazy ghost stories notwithstanding. And Harry  _has_  been unusually stressed lately. You’d thought it was over all the research he’s been doing, but perhaps it’s more. He hadn’t been at the last few pub crawls you’ve organized with Seamus and Dean and some of the lads from the Ministry, always talking about having to work on something, and you’d known he was wrapped up in the details of the mysterious case but you hadn’t really believed that he was  _that_  tied up in it.  
  
Looking back now, as much as you’d been aware of Harry’s movements, his habits, his pursuits, or lack thereof, perhaps you hadn’t truly been aware of the important things.  
  
Thankfully, you manage to finish shaving without blood loss, and he throws you a grin over his shoulder as he takes over the bathroom. You’re relieved to be out of there, quite frankly, and your skin still tingles from how close the two of you were; how much heat there was between you.  
  
After lunch, you once again make the trek to Lafitte’s. Gus is still there, and he greets you both loudly and enthusiastically.  
  
“How are my two favourite Brits?”  
  
Ha bloody ha, the wanker, plying you with drink last night. Doesn’t matter that you asked him for them, and paid for them, but still. Man should look out for his ‘mates’.  
  
“Yeah, yeah, not nursing a hangover, that’s how we are.”  
  
“Stomachs of steel, you two. Thought for sure you’d be out of it for a couple days with the amount you were drinking.”  
  
There’s an odd shimmer in the corner of the bar to your right, and the room, reasonably cool despite being midday, is suddenly degrees colder than just a minute ago. The air feels thick, and heavy, ominous, unsettled, and you see Harry go for his wand, already in battle stance even though you’ve both been briefed by Lisa via the New Orleans Magical Association regarding the non-use of magic, especially in front of their Muggles. You can’t blame him though, you’re less than a second behind him with your wand slipping out of your sleeve and into your palm. Still concealed, but ready.  
  
Your magic calls to Harry’s, something it’s done occasionally since the war, especially during moments of high stress, but the strange interference in the norner disappears as quickly as it began.  
  
Your magic still tingles within you, pushing at the edges of your control as it eagerly begs to be free, to do your bidding. You love the way magic feels for you now; even though you’ve always had it, as you’ve matured, it’s grown into something formidable and powerful. Generations of magical excellence, your Mum would say proudly, ruffling your hair the way she loves to do even though it secretly drives you bonkers.  
  
You’d agree with her, except you know that it’s more than that. After the drama of Bill and Fleur’s wedding and battling Death Eaters in London, you’d been anxious and ill at ease in Grimmauld Place, especially with Kreacher lurking around. Harry’d cast a protection spell over you one night in Sirius’ bedroom, and although you don’t remember his words or the colour of the light, you remember vividly the feeling of being warm all over, as though the warmth flowed through your body, and you’d felt instantly calm and full of courage. It had been an incredibly intimate moment shared between you; you’d been privileged to know the taste of his magic and, ever since then, you’ve had more precise control over your power, and greater strength in your casting.  
  
You meet Harry’s eyes – they’re just wide enough to register his adrenaline high, probably the same as yours, and you nod as you stand down, slipping your wand back up your sleeve. He does the same and you both turn back to Gus who’s gone very very silent as he stares at you.  
  
“You- Were you going to fight that thing?”  
  
Harry carefully doesn’t answer as he eases onto a barstool, and you follow his lead. He’s better at talking with Muggles anyway, and Gus seems legitimately freaked out.  
  
“Just a reaction, Gus. Kinda surprised us.” Harry really does have the right combination of soothing and nonchalance.  
  
Gus, however, isn’t having any of it. “That’s a military sort of reaction, fellas. You two ex-Army? Brit Super Spy service? Double-Oh-Seven-type stuff?”  
  
The references are quite lost on you, but Harry grins easily enough that you’re not concerned. “Nah, we’ve just been in a dust-up or two, y’know, growing up, messing with the wrong crowd.”  
  
“Hmm. Seems a bit… magical to me.”  
  
 _Oh, bloody buggering bollocks!_  
  
There’s absolute silence for a long moment, and you’re about ready to hit him with a Memory Charm when Harry stays your arm with a careful hand.  
  
“Why would you say that?”  
  
Gus nods towards Harry’s arm. “Looks like some wand action to me. I’ve met a few of your people before. You always have that twitchy way with the arm.”  
  
You share a look with Harry, and you know he’d rather not go around Obliviating people, especially when there’s the potential for useful information. You nod; Gus doesn’t seem to be the type of man who’d blow the whistle on your investigation, and besides, sorting things out would only work to his advantage.  
  
Harry turns back to him. “Yes, we are wizards, but this is an extremely sensitive matter and we really can’t have you blowing our cover.”  
  
Gus is quick to placate. “No, no, I’m thankful that you folk were able to come over and try and fix this thing. It’s not good for business, y’know?”  
  
You nod, as does Harry. All right, so you’re all in agreement.  
  
“So, are you the Manager, then?” You want to be sure before you go talking magical theory with random drink-dealing Muggles.  
  
He nods. “That I am. Gus Lefevre, at your service. I wondered whether my request would even fall on the right ears.”  
  
Harry grins. “We have an exceptional office manager. I believe she tried to reply but the Fl- the, uh, messages kept being returned.”  
  
“Oh, yes. That. It’s not always easy to correspond with… well, with your side of things.”  
  
“Well, we’re here now. So what’s been happening with the ghost?” you ask.  
  
Gus seems thankful to actually be able to talk openly about the situation. “What we’re able to discern is that our resident ghost has been misbehaving.”  
  
Harry cocks his head. “Similar to what just happened? But that was more like a ghoul or even a Poltergeist.”  
  
Gus looks between you anxiously. “No, the difference is more sinister than that. Our ghost is rumoured to be that of Jean Lafitte, the original owner and smuggler. He was my great great many-times-great grandfather, and he’s always been ‘our’ ghost, you see? He can be a bit of a scamp on occasion, but not really a malicious energy. We call him ‘Old Voodoo’ – ‘cause of our signature purple drink we serve, the Voodoo Daiquiri –”   
  
You flinch at the memory of this morning’s hangover, and you notice that Harry’s gone the slightest bit pale.  
  
“What sort of things does he do?”  
  
Gus gestured widely. “Oh, you know, he’s got a penchant for the fireplace. Legend says that his gold was hidden there, and people have said they’ve seen glowing red eyes in the fireplace. Usually it’s just cold spots near there, or people sitting in that corner over there say they’ve felt a ghostly hand touching them. Then there’s the cigar smoke – there’s been no smoking in here for years, but it’s said that his presence is felt when you smell cigar smoke.”  
  
“So basically he’s benign, if he’s a ghost at all.”  
  
“Yes, usually, like I’ve said, but now, there’s something else there and it’s freaking out the customers. Hell, it’s even freaking us out, and we’re used to that sort of thing. We’ve spent a couple hundred years cultivating the idea of the place being haunted by the ghost of Jean Lafitte, and of him being a non-troublesome ghost – we take all the precautions we can - but this is different, guys. This is something ‘other’.”  
  
“When you say ‘precautions’…” Harry’s voice has dropped lower, into what you think of as his ‘business’ tone, where he speaks more carefully and specifically, and that brings a definite gravitas to the situation. You also can’t help but enjoy just a tiny bit the way it makes you feel, as though pleasure hums through your bones.  
  
“It’s an old Orleanian tradition to scrub the front steps with brick dust. We used to do that once a month or so, but since this new development, we’ve done it daily, all the doors, even the windows, and still nothing has changed.”  
  
“Is that ‘old’ as in Voodoo rituals?”  
  
“Yes, it’s based on that, and it can’t hurt to be cautious, right?”  
  
You nod sagely, wishing you’d have exercised that kind of common sense with those drinks last night.  
  
“All right, so what sorts of things have you seen?”  
  
“It’s a sort of, I dunno, spidery type of thing. There are spider webs some mornings, cold things, and freakin’ huge! The room itself goes from being cold to hot and back again, and the pressure inside the room increases. Bottles fall from the shelves and there’s an acrid smell and taste in the air. The customers swear that they’ve seen eyes staring at them from darkened corners, not just two, but a myriad of them.”  
  
You fight against the mostly-involuntary shiver that runs through your entire body. You know all about myriad eyes, and vividly remember trees, and darkness, and being surrounded by the clicking sound of hundreds of hungry mouths descending, descending…  
  
“Ron!” Harry’s voice snaps you back to the here and now, and without looking, you can feel the weight of his eyes on you even as he continues the conversation as though there’d been no break. You feel shaky, your heartbeat thready, as always happens after flashbacks like these, but you know it’ll pass, so you force your attention to the matter at hand.  
  
He turns towards you, all business, and despite everything you  _really_  can’t help but get a little turned on when he’s like this. He quirks his eyebrows in that way he has, asking silently ‘ _Are you okay?’_  
  
You nod. You’ll be fine; it wasn’t even that bad, didn’t last too long.  
  
Harry continues as though there was no break. “The cold, though. Spiders don’t usually live in anything less than warmth-”  
  
You know where he’s going with this. “Which means it’s a Boggart.”  
  
“Most likely.”  
  
Getting rid of a Boggart is child’s play, usually, and even though you’re less than settled after the memories of spiders, you’re more than capable of handling things. You touch your wand and feel around gently with your magic, testing the foreign magical energy and seeking out the limits of the Boggart’s influence on the area around it. There’s an almost caustic feel to some of it, and you’re surprised to realize that there are layers of spells twisting through the foundations of the building and keeping it tethered to the structure. Even if the Boggart wanted to leave, you doubt that it’d be able to do so. That’s unusual, as is the residual stinging sensation that you’re left with.  
  
“It seems as though there’s a lot of negative energy here, Gus, and that’s probably wreaking havoc on your ghost. We’ll have to do a bit more research, check out the other buildings around and see what sort of feel we get.”  
  
“Of course, anything you need, just give me a holler.”  
  
He leaves you to attend to another patron at the bar, and Harry’s expression says it all.  
  
 _Not going to be a quick solution at all, is it._  
  
You both wave to Gus as you leave the bar a few minutes later, he’s all smiles once more, and yet you can’t shake the feeling that something’s changed in the room, that perhaps just by your stirring up the eddies a bit, the ominous presence has increased, and that things are shifting towards the dangerous.

~~~  
  
Monday morning is spent at the local public library, researching the history of Lafitte’s and the construction details of the surrounding areas. You snort with amusement when Harry remarks how proud Hermione would be of you both, firstly for taking public transport in America and also for willingly going into a place of learning. It’s really been too long since you were all together, and you make a mental note to owl her soon.  
  
You get back to the large table that you’ve both commandeered for your research, and Harry’s already nose-deep in two old books. The very friendly library assistant has helpfully supplied you with at least a dozen more.  
  
Three dusty tomes later, you’ve not found much to help, but as you pick up the next book you notice a folded piece of paper. Harry looks up just as you open it and read what’s written there in bright pink ink - the assistant’s name, Cynthia, and a telephone number. There’s a little heart over the ‘i’.  
  
You glance around, but she’d mentioned that she was leaving at half past eleven for lunch, and it’s just gone noon. You breathe a sigh of relief, but then notice that Harry looks heavily at the note, then up at you, and suddenly you feel awkwardly like you’ve done something wrong, or that Harry’s upset in some way, which doesn’t make sense since he didn’t even talk to Cynthia when you both came in.  
  
A few hours later, you have lunch at a park across the street and realize that you and Harry haven’t actually discussed the intricacies of the problems that the olde magics of New Orleans might bring to bear on your clearing away the negative energy at Lafitte’s. You can’t exactly look that up at the library, but then Harry’s idea to see whether there’s a Magical section proves to be inspired. On your return there, you both select different areas of the library to investigate, and barely ten minutes later, you’ve found a magical-feeling signature in the corner behind the Native American section.  
  
The thing about the New Orleans magic is that it feels… muddled, for lack of a better word, almost as though it’s being ‘spoken’ in a different language, and the ‘translation’ isn’t coming through clearly. You mention that to Harry.  
  
“Well, I suppose it  _is_  a different language, when you think about it, coming from Africa, but even so, there’s a commonality to all magic, isn’t there? Take a look at this map; there are ley lines in the area, and the strongest one runs along Bourbon Street.”  
  
“And Lafitte’s has been around since the 1700s. Plenty of time to soak up the magic.  
  
“What about the night club next door? The one Gus mentioned. He said it shares a wall with the pub.”  
  
The ‘troublesome corner’, as he’d quaintly put it.  
  
“Plus both buildings are  _on_  Bourbon Street, so if your theory is correct, blimey, it could be a sort of nexus for magical power. A crossroads.”  
  
“Exactly. We’re talking ancient crossroads.”  
  
“Bloody hell.”  
  
You head back to the hotel where you both make a comprehensive list of what information you’ve gleaned, plus your and Harry’s impressions of the ‘event’. The next obvious step entails researching the club with the adjoining wall, but you have this niggling feeling…  
  
“Y’know, I’ve been looking at the information all put together, Harry, and I don’t think we’re dealing with a true Boggart.”  
  
“Why would you say that?”  
  
“What did you see in Professor Lupin’s class that time with the Boggart?”  
  
Harry sighs. “A Dementor.”  
  
“Exactly.”  
  
“I don’t follow.”  
  
“The spider was  _my_  Boggart, yeah? Nobody else’s. What the Muggles see at Lafitte’s, if it  _is_  a spider, must be some other type of creature. I can’t imagine that every single person is that afraid of spiders.”  
  
Harry’s quiet for a long moment, and you shudder at the crawling sensation that even the thought of spiders always leaves you with.  
  
“All right, so what’s our play?”  
  
“I say we go to the club, see whether we can detect anything untoward on that side of the wall and then come back and regroup.”  
  
“What are you expecting to find?”  
  
That’s the question of the day, isn’t it? “I don’t really know, but there’s definitely a presence there strong enough to manifest itself to Muggles, day or night. I can’t help but feel that we’re going to find something in the club. There  _has_  to be an answer there.”  
  
A few hours and a light meal later, you and Harry get dressed and head up the street to the night club. It’d be difficult to miss the place, festooned with gaily-flapping flags in rainbow colours. Even in the fading light, they stand out against the darker brick of the building. You take a moment to smile at the name, ‘Oz’.  
  
Music is already spilling out through the doors, and you follow Harry as he pushes his way through the throng gathered on the pavement, noting the abundance of well-muscled young men. You get your fair share of admiring looks which, yes, surprise you as much as they flatter and amuse you, but you resolutely keep your eyes on Harry’s  ~~arse~~  back! His back! eyes on his  _back_  as you go through the doors and into the darkness of the pub.  
  
The noise hits you hard, thumping bass and gyrating bodies everywhere. Apparently tonight is something called Happy Hour from 4 to 8 pm, and you’re alarmed to realize that at midnight there’s a Strip-off contest. You also belatedly realize that Oz is a gay bar.  
  
You wouldn’t say that you’re surprised, exactly, and certainly not uncomfortable, although you may not have actually picked this place if it wasn’t part of the investigation. Still, you think about the way Harry’s been behaving since getting to New Orleans, a bit out of character, especially with the drinking, and you wonder whether he’s just finally been able to unbend enough, to unwind and let go enough to be who he wants (and maybe needs) to be.  
  
Officially, your cover is the same as before, two buddies just enjoying the party scene, but you really doubt that it’s even going to matter – you’re not going to be talking to any Muggles here tonight. You doubt that you’d be heard over the noise of the music anyway. The club is dark, but there are lots of flashing lights and pockets of brightly-glowing decorations, and you both separate and head in opposite directions for a quick reconnaisance of the place.  
  
The wall bordering Lafitte’s is where the bar is, the long glossy surface running the length of the wall. The rest of the space is dance floor, with occasional tables and couches settled along the outer edges, up against the walls. There’s nothing obviously untoward in any of the corners you check, and you lean against the bar as close as possible to the corner and reach out with your senses, sending the faintest tendrils of magic into the darkness. Neither of you have your wands, something that makes you feel almost naked, and not in a good way, but there’s a sting of unfriendly magic, dark and turbulent. It’s nowhere near as powerful as in Lafitte’s, but it would seem that Harry’s theory about ley lines is correct.  
  
The case just got a whole lot more interesting.  
  
Harry returns, grinning at you like a wild thing unleashed, and he claps you on the back encouragingly, his hand lingering warm at the small of your back for what feels like a long time. You can’t help the shiver that runs along your spine as you lean into his touch, just for a moment, then force yourself to move away from his hand, even though you relish the way it feels. He turns and signals for the bartender, and you groan as you anticipate another night of drinking with him, but you think that perhaps it’s time to just let things play out and see what happens.  
  
Thankfully, there are no purple drinks in sight, but Harry soon manages to procure two plastic cups of something called a ‘Hurricane’ which is a nicely fruity concoction. You clink your glasses together in a toast and get started on your night of ‘investigation’.  
  
Hours later, when there’s been no sight of anything remotely magical or menacing, and the drinks have loosened your thoughts about Lines That Ought Not To Be Crossed enough that the fact that you can’t seem to stop yourself from looking at him doesn’t seem like Such A Bad Thing. All the dancing has warmed you up to the idea that Harry doesn’t object when you move close to him, when you both laugh your way through stumbling dance steps, when one or the other or both of you has been pulled into a group of men who just want to have fun, you might be able to admit to yourself that this wasn’t such a bad idea after all.  
  
Harry has his back to you, dancing with a blond bloke who reminds you a little too uncomfortably of Malfoy, and you’re fixated on the way Harry’s arse looks in those denims. It’s hot on the dance floor, the music driving the pulse of the dance, the flashing lights and all the flesh around you are major distractions, but Harry’s the only one you want to pay any attention to. His shoulders rock forwards and backwards as he sways in tandem with the Malfoy look-alike, and you can’t help but fit yourself behind him, covering his back, moving in closer until the heat of him bleeds into you. You’re drunk with him, your body alight in a way it hasn’t been since the early days of Hermione, and even then, even then it wasn’t this visceral, demanding pull; those days were much more innocent; but now, now you want to do pretty inappropriate things to him, and that frightens you almost as much as it entices you.  
  
You also really just want to be able to touch him.  
  
And so you do, clapping him on the shoulder before sliding your hand around him, flat against his abdomen. He turns his head, mouth stretched wide with a grin that shows you all the ways in which this is A Bad Idea and all the other ways in which it’s the Best Thing Ever.  
  
“Dance with me” you shout in his ear, not even sure he can hear you over the din of the music.  
  
He answers by rocking back against you, his hand covering yours as it rests on his abdomen, his grip possessive in its own right. Suddenly there’s no space between your bodies, and he shamelessly grinds his arse against your groin, sparking off what’s already a problem in your pants. You’re hard so fast that it almost blinds you, you’re breathless with the sheer energy between you, it’s electric, your heart stuttering and beating erratically, too fast, surely loud enough to be heard over the noise.   
  
You look down at where Harry’s head rests against your shoulder, his eyes half-closed, that wicked grin curving his mouth, his hand now on the back of your neck as he pulls you closer, and  _fuck!_ you’re going to explode from the friction alone. He must feel your hard length pushing against his buttocks as you try not to thrust, but bugger all of Merlin’s family, you can’t help yourself. You know he feels it, if the way he bites down on his bottom lip and  _grinds_  against you is any indication, holding you tight and sliding your joined hands further down his stomach and under the waistband of his trousers, and for a moment you let him, you  _want him to_ , your body racing towards an inevitability that you’ve craved for so long, but then you’re stepping back hurriedly and holding him away with your hands on his shoulders before you do something you’ll likely both regret.  
  
You’re not drunk, not really, and your body judders and aches for him, starved of the heat and friction it so desperately craves, your fingers tingling, yearning to  _touch_ , but you can’t bring yourself to let this go as far as you want it to, you really can’t, not when Harry’s so obviously compromised. You can’t ruin what you have for the sake of rubbing one off on the dancefloor of some club in New Orleans.  
  
His eyes are huge in the dim light, huge and hurt and everything you never wanted to see there. His mouth hangs open for a moment before he closes it, blinking hard, and suddenly he’s not the carefree man you just danced with, he’s the sad and broken boy you pulled from the frozen pond in the Forest of Dean.  
  
A crowd of barely-dressed young men sweeps past you, whooping and shouting, and you’re both separated in the rush. Harry’s pulled along with them in the excitement, and you look for him anxiously, desperate to say  _anything_  to fix what you’ve surely bolloxed up. Even with your height advantage, he’s nowhere to be found, and you try to force your way through the thickening crowd in the direction you last saw him. Before long a strangely-clad … person stands on the bartop and announces the Strip-Off competition, and the crowd goes wild, crowding the stage and taking you along with it. You close your eyes and groan at the thought of what’s about to ensue, when you suddenly realize that you won’t be able to get to Harry through the throng.  
  
You know he’s more than capable of handling himself, even wandless, but you’re a bit concerned that you’ve just essentially rejected his pretty obvious advances, and, coupled with the alcohol and his seemingly odd headspace, it probably isn’t a brilliant combination.  
  
Mere moments later, a young man clambers onto the bar and the music changes into a raunchy sort of burlesque number. He struts back and forth along the length of the bar, peeling off his clothes slowly one item at a time as the crowd hoots and cheers. His body undulates in a way that’s frankly quite erotic, and he keeps disrobing until he’s down to very tiny black pants. Very tiny.  
  
The song ends, and the man steps down on the other end of the bar amid cheering and shouts of approval, avoiding many grabbing hands, as another young man alights, accompanied by a different song, more upbeat with a definite dance, bass-pumping beat. He follows much the same sort of routine, although he gets down to what might generously be called a jock strap. He turns around to give the crowd a good look at his arse and teasingly pulls down one of the straps holding the thing on, but doesn’t get further than that, despite very loud and enthusiastic encouragement.  
  
The song changes again as another man takes the ‘stage’, and you’re shocked to see that it’s Harry! What the bleedin’ fuck? Since when has Harry Potter been the type to showcase his goods to complete strangers? The song’s another raunchy-sounding one, or at least, the music is, but the words aren’t.  
  


_It's a new dawn  
It's a new day  
It's a new life  
For me  
And I'm feeling good_

  
  
He seems a bit unsteady as he walks along the wooden bar, but still manages to take off all his clothes in time with the beat of the music without too much trouble. You’re equal parts horrified and painfully aroused by the spectacle, and haven’t noticed that you’ve been edging closer to the bar until he’s stripped down to his tight, bright red (Gryffindor) pants.  
  
His thighs are lightly-haired and still well muscled after all the pick-up Quidditch games he’s played in the years since Hogwarts. You knew that, didn’t you? That his legs were so nicely defined; surely you’d known that. Your cock has taken immediate and extreme interest in that fact, and radiates approval at the way he moves in those pants. Dear Gods!  
  
The crowd starts shouting for him to take them off, to ‘let Christmas come early’, and he starts running his hands along the waistband, hooking his thumbs inside and giving a little downward tug to first one side  
  


_And this old world_

  
  
and then the other,  
  


_is a new world_

  
  
following the beat of the music perfectly.  
  
The crowd’s reaching for him, screaming now,   
  


_And a bold world… for me_

  
  
Shouting at him, yeah, baby, gimmie some of that red-hot lovin’ ass… but he has the strangest, lost expression…  
  


For me

  
  
And-  
  
No.  
  
Just- Merlin, no.  
  
There is NO WAY that you’re going to allow Harry to go on like this. You’re directly in front of him now, well, in front of his … uh… his pants, and all the… stuff that’s  _in_  his pants, but ANYWAY he’s noticed you there and grins in that soft way that you’ve come to treasure. He mouths your name; it’s too damn loud this close to the music to hear anything, but you manage to grab him around his thighs and pull him off the bar.  
  


_Oh freedom is mine  
And I know how I feel  
It's a new dawn  
It's a new day  
It's a new life… for me_

  
  
There are loud boos and complaints from the men surrounding you, plus more than a few wolf-whistles, but you barely hear them as Harry slides down your body slowly. You groan and try not to arch into him as he slides against your cock, and you hold him to you closely, one hand cradling his head to your shoulder, ridiculously relieved and thankful that you’ve got him, that he’s all right and unharmed.  
  


_And I'm feeling good_

_I'm feeling good  
I feel so good  
I feel so good_

  
  
You turn and give the crowd a menacing look, at which they back away rather quickly, allowing you a clear path out of the mania. They’re already engrossed in the next young man up on the bar, if the shouting and hollering is anything to go by.  
  
You settle Harry on a stool against a wall but can’t find his clothes (and you bloody well aren’t going back into that crowd to search for them), so you quickly unbutton your shirt and put it on him. He’s suddenly meek, unsteady as he leans against the wall, pliant as you get his arms through the sleeves and do up the buttons. It’s a bit long on him, thankfully falling below his arse, but the hem of his pants are just visible beneath the edge of the shirt. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t feel  _very_  proprietary seeing him in your clothes.  
  
He looks up at you, finally, his expression unreadable, eyes looking very unfocussed.  
  
“Heyyyyyy,” he slurs.  
  
“Harry, what in the hell was that?”  
  
“Ron! Where’d you go?”  
  
“I’m right here, Harry.  
  
His smile’s a bit crooked and looks almost rueful. “Yeah.” And that just confuses you, but you know that trying to rationalize anything with a drunken Harry isn’t going to be at all productive. Time to get him back to the hotel.  
  
“M’sorry. Was just trying… to have… a bit of fun. Couldn’t find you…”  
  
Fun. Right. He’s speaking slowly and deliberately, pronouncing every word with exaggerated precision, and, hell, Harry really can’t hold his liquor. After the Purple Drink Debacle, you think he’d have learned.  
  
Harry starts to lean sideways, barely noticeable at first, but his eyes are heavily lidded and you realize that he’s all kinds of messed up. You turn to the bartender in exasperation and gesture to the drink that’s been served all night.  
  
“What the hell is IN that thing?”  
  
“Aww, shit, son, I didn’t figure him for such a lightweight.”  
  
Harry grabs your arms and pulls you closer. “I need you, Ron.”  
  
Your heart’s in fragments now, hearing those words said with such earnestness, knowing that what he says is so very different from what you want it to mean. What you feel for him, the depth and breadth of your love for him is bigger than the Hallows, stronger than the Horcruxes, wider than all of the Forbidden Forest. He’s everything to you, friend,  _partner-_    
  
“Ron.” Harry’s grip is suddenly iron-hard, his eyes fever-bright, and you’re uncomfortably aware of a building tension in the air around you. “Ron, Ron, Ronnnnnnn…… want you with me, mate.”  
  
Oh, Merlin, your head’s not in the right place to deal with this, not when you want so much more than you’ll ever get.  
  
“I’m- I’m right here, Harry. Let’s just get you back to the hotel, okay? You’ll be nice and safe there, you can have a shower, get some sleep-”  
  
Harry spears you with a look, suddenly focussed and completely serious.  
  
“I want you, Ron. With me. Always.”  
  
Shit. He  _is_  serious, but so are you. “I’m with you, Harry. I will protect you with everything I am, you know that,” you reply earnestly, and you’ve never meant anything more. It’s utterly terrifying, saying it out loud to him.  
  
A brilliant light surrounds you both and the sound of wind rushes past your ears. It’s almost deafening, except that it isn’t a physical feeling, but more of a magical one; magical with a very old feeling to it. You’re inexplicably surrounded by strains of Phoenix song, and a warmth blossoms inside you, a calming, soothing feeling. You have just enough time for one breath of absolute peace before the light dissipates and Harry passes out.  
  
You manage to catch him before he brains himself on the table, and curse not quite under your breath. It takes some maneuvering, but you finally have him trussed up against you, one of his arms around your shoulder, and you’re ready to stagger the few minutes it’ll take to get to your room.  
  
You start off, shuffling a bit awkwardly to the door, trying to balance Harry’s weight against your own, when an old man steps in front of you, a grin full of crooked teeth glinting in the semi-darkness.  
  
“Ah, lads, well done. I’m so honoured to be part of a Soul Bonding, especially in this day and age. Blessed be.”  
  
 _Soul Bonding?_  
  
The light.  
  
The strange wind that nobody else seemed to notice.  
  
The feeling that there’s something significantly different…  
  
Merlin alive, you’ve just bonded with Harry!

~~~  
  
  
“We are not talking about this.”  
  
You’re thankful that your legs are so much longer than his, and your strides eat up the street as you walk past Jackson Square. Lisa had listed the Jean Lafitte Visitor Centre on Decatur Street as somewhere potentially worth checking out, and you’d planned to visit it today, maybe have some lunch down by the waterfront, but that was before-  
  
“Ron, honestly, how is this my fault?” Harry’s voice is just slightly breathless, and you stop, turning so quickly that he almost walks into you.  
  
“Was there any point during the night, Harry,  _any point at all_  at which you thought ‘Hey, this might be a bad idea’?”  
  
The blush on his face might be adorable in any other situation. It might be adorable now, but you’re RESOLUTELY NOT THINKING THAT.  
  
“I didn’t think much, to be honest. Ron-”  
  
“NO, Harry!” Christ, how do you make him understand what he’s done to you, how he’s changed your life? Again! “Magical Bonding isn’t a joke, mate, it’s… ”  
  
 _It’s for life._  
  
“Look, I’m sorry, all right? There must be some way we can undo it.”  
  
Oh, and that shouldn’t hurt as much as it does; the knowledge that Harry can’t stand the thought of being Bonded to you, his best friend. He’s not making eye contact, which is fine, since you don’t know how to look at him anyway. For a moment last night, before the crushing reality came thundering down on you, you’d been happy. You’d felt his magic through the bond, felt a sense of completeness and of… belonging, different to the way you feel about your own family, where you’ve always had to struggle to be seen, be heard, but have always known you were loved.  
  
The Bond is different. This is pure, it’s knowing you’re seen, and heard, and the love- Well, you know how it feels from your side, but Harry obviously doesn’t return those feelings. Your bitterness is insidious, creeping inside, unwelcome and unwanted, but you’ll push through this, you always do. You’ll find a way to handle it.  
  
“-find that old wizard. I’m sure he’ll know something.”  
  
“We don’t even know who he is or where he’s from, Harry. What are you going to do, go back to the bar and question everyone working there? Hope to find some or all of the men who were there last night and ask them whether they recall seeing an old wizard? In a night club? In New Orleans? You’re out of your bloody mind!”  
  
“OI! Just calm down, Ron, there has to be a way. You’d think I’ve done something hideous to you, being Bonded.”  
  
You don’t have an answer for him – he couldn’t be further from the truth if he tried. You’re all twisted up inside with whatever it is you’re feeling and you can’t get a grip on things, but you clamp down hard on your emotions; it wouldn’t do to have them bleed through the Bond and show Harry how miserable you are.  
  
You sigh heavily, the feelings of failure and worry thrumming through you; your own, and what feels like an echo of Harry’s. There’s confusion there, and regret, and something that’s very much like despair, but you know Harry, and he’s not one to give in to those negative emotions. You need to clear your head; the two of you have been so close, physically, especially since the Bonding, that your head feels muddled by the chaos of thoughts and feelings.  
  
“Do whatever you like, Harry. I’m going back to the hotel.”  
  
You walk away, barely noticing the way he just stands there in silence and lets you leave. You feel so very tired, and yet restless with some unnamed emotion. Perhaps you just need to lie down for a while.  
  
As you walk, memories return, unbidden, of the Horcrux hunt and that terrible, terrible day when you’d stormed out of the tent, awash with bitter, burning anger and jealousy, leaving Harry and Hermione and  _safety_  behind. You’d realized it the moment you’d stepped beyond the wards, but still driven by anger, you’d Disapparated, and, well, you’d been occupied for a while, and then you couldn’t find them.  
  
You’d been lying in bed, awake before the dawn, when you’d heard Harry’s voice whisper your name. The sound had come from your chest, and you’d gone very still, your hand over your pounding heart, not sure if you’d been dreaming or not. Just then, you’d felt the Deluminator, and the light that came on when you’d clicked it went into your chest, a warmth right over your heart, and in an instant you were ankle-deep in snow on the side of a hill. You hadn’t known why you were there, only that you had to  _be_  there, but there was only snow and silence. As darkness fell at day’s end, you’d once more clicked the Deluminator and found yourself in the woods, still confused, but trusting in the feeling of inevitabliity.  
  
Moments later, you’d been stunned to see a bright silver light heralding Harry’s Patronus, a sight so familiar that it had set off a burst of happiness in your heart.  _Harry’s here!_ ; you’d been certain of it, _thank Merlin_  you’d found him. There was something slightly off about the creature, though, something different, but for all that you’d been careful for months now, the thought of seeing Harry and Hermione outweighed your caution as you had followed its path down to the water where you’d watched, open mouthed, as your best friend had jumped into the freezing depths.  
  
You could never properly describe the dread you’d felt, the absolute certainty that Harry was in mortal danger, and you hadn’t hesitated before plunging in after him. The hideous aura of dark malevolence was difficult to get through, but with one hand on Harry and the other on the sword, you’d pushed off from the bottom and kicked for the surface.  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
 _The hand running through your hair feels nice, soothing, comforting, and you know without opening your eyes that it’s Harry. He’s sitting on the couch where you’d fallen asleep, your head in his lap, and his happiness is evident in the inner parts of you where the Bond connects you both. You smile, knowing that he’s doing the same, and the feelings of contentment and happiness are so strong that they fill you up, expanding to soak through every cell, every fibre of your being, until you’re both surrounded by love and light.  
  
This. This is being Bonded._  
  
You’re awakened by a loud noise and whirl around, already crouched fully ready into battle stance beside the couch that you’d fallen asleep on, only to see Harry standing in front of the now-closed door. He’s angry in a way that you’ve not felt before, hurt with a taste of humiliation, but it goes as quickly as it came, taking its intensity with it.  
  
He slumps to the floor next to the couch.  
  
“I tried, Ron, please believe me I tried. I thought I could- well, it doesn’t matter really, but everyone I’ve talked to says it can’t be undone unless we both want it.”  
  
“O-kay,” you say slowly as you sink onto the couch, trying to calm your breaths as the adrenaline rush subsides.  
  
“I’m sorry, though, and I mean it, because I know you don’t want- you don’t want this, obviously, but, well, I could try to undo it, I’d try really hard if you wanted me to, you know, to fix things, but, Ron,” and his eyes are luminous, and you never thought you’d say that about him. “Ron, I don’t want to unBond, and I feel terrible for having put you in this situation. Please tell me what to do. Tell me you want this undone and I’ll do it – I’ll find a way, I swear.”  
  
Your heart’s breaking, the emotion too big to be contained just inside your own body. You can’t possibly deal with the pain this has brought with it, but Harry’s on his knees in front of you, flayed open to the world in a way you never thought you’d see, and you realize that this is hurting him more than it’s hurting you. You can’t believe that he’s actually serious, that he’d hurt himself just to see you happy.  
  
“Harry,” is all you can manage before he’s crawled right up to kneel beside you, practically in your lap, all urgency and desperation, and despite yourself, you like him there.  
  
“Ron, Ron… I know this is so much to deal with, I really do, I wouldn’t have had you find out this way or at ALL – it’s only going to ruin everything.”  
  
 _Wait, what?_  
  
“Find out what, Harry?”  
  
“Err,” and he’s suddenly cagy, evasive. “I- The Bonding. Have you find out that we’d Bonded. I wasn’t really even all that conscious, being off my face that way, so technically it shouldn’t have happened at all. The Shaman said that it was because of prior magical exchange, some sharing of spirit and/or magic, but I didn’t-”  
  
Suddenly, Harry’s eyes are huge, and you know that he’s remembering that night in Sirius’ room, the night when he gave you comfort and strength, the night when you first shared his magic. Your stomach plummets, a dawning realization that’s not your realization at all, except that maybe it is, a bit.  
  
“Jesus,” he whispers, running his hand through his hair the way you like.  _“Jesus,_  Ron. I have made such a bloody mess of this.”  
  
“Harry, what are you talking about?”  
  
“When the Shaman talked about sharing of spirit, he looked at me as though he  _knew_  something, almost as though he was expecting it, but how could he?”  
  
“I don’t understand. What do you mean, expecting it? This was most definitely NOT expected!”  
  
“No, I know! Only-”  
  
“Only?”  
  
He looks at you and suddenly you feel it; he capitulates, almost a surrender. He shifts to sit beside you and he’s all hesitancy, there’s no other way to describe it. You  _feel_  it, and you’re confused.  
  
“You’re my best mate, Ron.”  
  
“Yeah, ’course, and you’re mine, Harry, you know that.” The fact that he’s so much more than that to you isn’t something that you want to speak aloud, but you’re feeling him through the Bond, and you hope to hell he’s not feeling you back-  
  
“I- I feel safe when you’re with me… touching me.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“When your arms are around me, I feel settled. I can’t describe it, Ron, but ever since that night at Grimmauld-”  
  
You know exactly what he’s talking about. That night, when you confessed that you were afraid of the unknown, of what the hunt would entail, worried whether you’d fail and what that would mean to the war effort on the whole and to you personally, to all of you, and you’d vowed to do whatever you had to in order to succeed. He’d hugged you then, and you him – you’d held each other for the longest time, acknowledging your fears, spoken and unspoken, and when he’d shared his magic with you, perhaps he’d begun the bonding process then and you hadn’t even realized it.  
  
Of course you’d bonded, bonded over the quest, the hunt, the singularity of purpose, the need to get things done, but you’d honestly thought that that was all there was to it, and you weren’t assured of even surviving the entire ordeal anyway. So you’d allowed your love for him to bleed into the embrace, to just wish for a moment that you could just be with each other, as friends but yes, more than just friends, to have a time when circumstances weren’t pulling you apart. You knew that it wasn’t to be, certainly not then, but, oh, how you’d wanted…  
  
“So you’re saying that our magic had already bonded?”  
  
“I think so.”  
  
“But, Harry, that was  _years_  ago!”  
  
“I know.” He hangs his head.  
  
“And what about that time with Dolohov?”  
  
“Err. I might have had an inkling about it then.”  
  
This is all moving entirely too fast. You know how you feel, how you’ve always felt, but this – to have Harry sitting there, telling you that he- that he feels the same way… no, it’s not possible. How likely is it that everything you’ve wanted could suddenly be yours?  
  
“How?”  
  
“I couldn’t see you hurt. It was as if my body moved on its own, my magic sought to protect you first, before doing my own bidding, before protecting me, before any defensive spells.”  
  
“That’s insane.”  
  
But you know he’s telling the truth – you’d felt the power of his spells that day, and they were far in excess of anything you’d ever felt him cast, even in the heat of battle.  
  
“I think I fully realized it then, but I couldn’t believe that I’d-”  
  
“You’d what?”  
  
He gusts out a heavy sigh. “Gotten what I wanted. And in such a roundabout way. I tried to keep busy, tried working on other things, threw myself into researching what Bonding meant and just hoping that keeping a bit of distance would help things, but it didn’t. I couldn’t sleep properly, my magic would call for you, seek you out.”  
  
Christ, and all this time you’d thought that Harry was obsessed with work when it was you he’d been obsessed with.  
  
But then… his feelings for you, surely they must be… Bond-related, and not honest, not true feelings.  
  
You’re suddenly more miserable than you thought you could ever be, the sinking feeling of humiliation that while he’d bared his soul to you, you’d thought the entire time that he wanted you, that he lo- that he cared so much for you ‘that’ way, and, oh, Merlin, it’s all a lie!  
  
You feel panic building inside you, unbidden, rising like bile in your throat; your chest is tight, it’s harder to breathe, you have to get out of here, but suddenly Harry’s rabbiting for the door, his eyes wild, and you realize that he’s the one really panicking, that he’s just as upset and unsettled by this as you are.  
  
Your reflexes are still as quick as ever, and you’re off the couch and able to grab his elbow as he’s almost at the door. Your grip is firm as you stop his forward motion, bringing him around until he’s held against your chest, his heart beating wildly as he struggles for a moment before falling into stillness against you.  
  
You wrap your arms around him, much as you had in the dance club, one hand automatically cradling his head against your shoulder, the other around the small of his back. He’s tense for a long moment, and then he sighs and relaxes against you, his arms coming cautiously around your back. You feel the heat of his palms as he presses them against your shoulder blades, and it’s as though a circle is complete, the two of you standing together amidst a feeling of utter calm.  
  
All this time! All the months of misreading the signs, of feeling so certain that you knew what was going on with your friend. Some strategist you are!  
  
Harry chuckles. “I can feel you.”  
  
 _Uhh…._  Shite, you’re not exactly aroused yet, but there’s a certain tightening in your groin at having his body firmly against yours.  
  
“I can feel your brain ticking over with all those recriminations. Stop it, Ron, I’m as much to blame.”  
  
 _Oh, thank fuck!_  
  
He turns his head into your neck, and you feel the curve of his smile against your skin for a moment before he bows his head, resting his forehead on your shoulder. It’s such an incredibly intimate moment for all that it isn’t really, and you feel him taking strength from you, strength that you gladly give.  
  
“We have to fix things,” he mutters.  
  
“We will,” and you’re absolutely certain of it. Together you’re a formidable team, always have been, but with combined magical abilities… surely the sky’s the limit.  
  
Harry releases you and you both return to the couch, the silence between you comfortable, easy.  
  
“After you…left, I went into that Visitor’s Centre on Decatur. There was a lot of history about New Orleans in general, but nothing specific to Jean Lafitte. He was a pirate, and it’s believed that he died in Central America back in the 1800s after an attack on Spanish ships went wrong.”  
  
“Any idea why he’d haunt the Blacksmith’s Shop?”  
  
“Not really, just that he used to spend time there in the early days of his ‘career’. Like Gus said, there’s the rumour that he’d hidden gold in the fireplace. It’s been searched a thousand times though, nothing was ever found.”  
  
“Okay, so the likelihood of it actually being Lafitte is slim to none. What else did you find?”  
  
“Some truly excellent shrimp at a place next door called ‘Bubba Gump’.”  
  
“Seriously?”  
  
“What! I was hungry!”  
  
You shake your head in amusement, thankful that the day wasn’t a total loss as far as research is concerned. Without moving far, you reach over to the coffee table and gather the various sheets of paper with your notes. Between the two of you, you’ve managed to establish that it’s most likely not a Boggart, or, at least, not  _only_  a Boggart, that the ghost probably isn’t really Lafitte’s, that major ley lines run along the length of Bourbon Street, and that you’re magically Soul Bonded for life. It’s been a hell of a few days.  
  
You’re starving, so you order room service, and even though Harry’s recently eaten, he still helps himself to a slice of pizza and then joins you in some chocolate torte for dessert. There’s a strange calmness to the energy between the two of you now that your mutual attraction has been acknowledged, but there’s no actual rush to carry things any further. You know that you’re holding back too; in your own mind, you’re still not entirely convinced that Harry’s feelings for you aren’t influenced by the Bond, and you just can’t allow yourself the luxury of believing. Your heart won’t be able to take it, and the case will simply have to take precedence over everything else for now.  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
Wednesday is overcast and dreary, and you spend it mostly at the library doing more detailed searches on ley lines and sources of old magic in the state. Cynthia is mercifully absent, although you notice a certain set to Harry’s jaw when the librarian asks you to fill out a customer satisfaction survey and asks who’d helped you during your last session. You resolutely stare directly at the paper and fill out the little ticky boxes before placing it in a small box marked ‘Survey says!’  
  
Muggles are odd people sometimes.  
  
The rest of the week yields little results. You visit a few cemeteries, but you don’t find any relevant information regarding Jean Lafitte or hauntings of the blacksmith’s shop.  
  
You also visit two other libraries but are met with little or no information. Magical sections of the libraries also don’t have useful information.  
  
The days pass quickly enough, despite the frustration at being stymied by this case. You return to Lafitte’s one day to meet with Gus and go over what you’ve discovered, which admittedly isn’t much. He’s able to give a few pointers on where to try in terms of the actual history of Lafitte’s shop, and another afternoon is spent searching through the Department of Records, but then Saturday comes and all government offices are closed, so you’re forced to abandon your research until Monday.   
  
It’s awkward being around Harry sometimes. You don’t know whether the way he’s being is because he has finally confessed his feelings, but you can’t, just can’t let yourself believe them. It’s the Bond talking, making him feel more for you than he’d normally do, and since there’s no way of undoing the Bond, there’ll never be a time when Harry will be truthful about how he feels. It’s not his fault, and you try so hard not to assign any blame for that part of things, even though the arse is the one who got you into this situation in the first place.  
  
And you need not have thought about arses, because Harry has a fine one. Oh, you’d known about it in the theoretical sense from years of casual (and not-so-casual) observation, but to have it pressed up against your highly-motivated morning wood is almost insult to injury.  
  
There’s also the problem of the Bond strengthening. Harry’s said that he feels safest when he’s touching you, holding you, being held by you, and even though you’re not used to sleeping in a bed with another person, and even though the blanket-like way that he drapes over you – and all right, you over him, let’s not pretend otherwise – is completely unlike the way you normally sleep, Saturday morning you wake to find yourself lying across his back with your face mashed against his neck and shoulder, your right arm trapped between his chest and the bed, his hair tickling your nose, one leg slung over him as your body presses his into the mattress.  
  
The warm sleep smell of him is delicious, and although you try to move away slowly, he shifts and stretches beneath you, his body moving in a slow roll as he tilts his head to the side and arches his back, pushing his arse against you in just the right way to let your already-hard cock slide against him.  
  
You might have managed to deal with all that were it not for the guttural, sleepy sound he makes, seeming all desire and satisfaction at the same time, and he takes your trapped hand in his and moves it lower, sliding under his body as he rocks up onto one hip, bending and raising his right knee towards his waist, basically opening himself up to you for the taking. Your joined hands creep closer to his groin and you can only imagine what you’ll find there – his cock, easily as hard as your own, probably damp with anticipation. Belatedly you realize that he’s not wearing anything at all-  
  
You push away and try to roll off of him, but in a move too swift for him to have been merely half-awake, he’s on his back beneath you, legs parted wide enough that your body fits snugly between them, your hands bracketing his head, his hands gripping your biceps in a mirror of that night at Oz.  
  
Surprised, you hold your body away from his even as you yearn for him with a vibration of excitement and need that thrums through you. He looks up at you for a long breathless beat, then turns his head and presses slow, very slow, cautious kisses to the inside of your arm. Your body shivers at the electric feeling of it, the moist heat of his breath against your skin, and you look down at him, the air between you strung tightly in the moment, as though the slightest sound or movement will break the magic. You stare at each other for what feels like an eternity, hardly daring to move, and he makes the softest growling noise deep in his throat, and your body feels like it’s breaking down into its parts, on fire with an intensity that you’ve never experienced before.  
  
Your entire being wants him, your chest tight with desire as you lower yourself onto him, tighten your arms around him, hold him closer, and finally,  _finally_  capture his lips with yours.  
  
It’s better than anything you’ve ever dreamed of, his lips soft and desperate, opening to you with another growl, this one louder and much more possessive. He angles his head and parts his lips, _taking_  from you even though you’re ready to give him everything. The kiss rapidly turns hot, slick and dirty as he grinds up against you, and the juddering feeling inside you wants him moving like that always. You’re so fucking turned on by the way he’s pressing up against you, thrusting his hips against yours, licking into your mouth as you battle for dominance as easily as breathing, the give and take as heady as the sheer heat rising between your bodies.  
  
You break apart, inhaling deeply, and take a moment to let your brain catch up with what’s just happened. Harry looks  _wrecked_ , and that’s just from kissing, but-  
  
“Harry-”  
  
 _Fuck, Ron…_  
  
“Harry, wait, we can’t.”  
  
“WHAT? What do you mean, ‘we can’t’, Ron? Because from where I’m lying it seems as though we bloody well CAN!”  
  
It’s as though you’ve been doused with cold water. You slide off of him, your body protesting with every functional cell, but you can’t do this when he’s-  
  
Harry’s staring at you with an expression that can only be described as thunderous. Maybe murderous. Definitely not happy.  
  
“Ron, you need to tell me what the hell is happening here.”  
  
“Harry, look, you’re obviously impaired.”  
  
“I have NOT been drinking, Ron! It’s just gone eight o’clock in the morning!”  
  
“No, I mean because of the Bond. You know it makes us do things and want things that we don’t really-“  
  
“Wait one bloody minute.” Harry sits back against the pillows, and despite your life going to shite right about now, you still can’t help but admire all that naked skin  _right there for the taking_  “Are you seriously trying to tell me that you think that all of this is just because of the Bond?”  
  
You nod miserably yet firmly, you hope, and Harry takes a deep breath.  _Oh shite, here it comes._  
  
“Are you off your tree? Where did you even come UP with that theory, Ron? For Christ’s sake, I’ve faced down dragons and Death Eaters and  _your bloody sister on her worst day_ ; I cannot believe that you think that I’m compromised!”  
  
“Harry, you’ve never-”  
  
“Neither have bloody you! But I didn’t see you objecting too terribly to what was going on just a moment ago! Bloody hell, Ron, do you-” and suddenly, he deflates. “Do you really not want this, then?”  
  
And you just can’t…. you can’t let him think that, especially when it’s so completely the opposite of everything you want.  
  
“I want this more than anything, Harry. I just don’t want it to be a mistake.”  
  
“Then why are we even having this argument?”  
  
He crawls out of the bed and walks around until he’s standing in front of you, naked as- well, naked, and a not-so-distant part of you really appreciates that. He grips your shoulders and shakes you a little.  
  
“ _Ron,_ ” and he sounds so broken. “Why are we having this argument?”  
  
The turbulence inside you makes your head spin, your own emotions blending with Harry’s in a jumble of hurt and want and fear and- you have to leave. You have to just get some distance, clear your head, try to make sense of what you’re feeling.  
  
“I have to go.”  
  
He reels back as though slapped, but releases you enough that you can grab a shirt and slip out of the door. You know you’ve left him just standing there, his pain is blinding through the magic that connects you. You don’t get too far past the closed door, though, resting your head against the smooth wooden surface as you just breathe, both your heart and mind answering the pull of the Bond. Even the small distance between you is enough to prove that you’re hurting as much as he is, and you can’t, you just can’t deny this any longer.  _Merlin!,_  you can’t!  
  
You stand back and put on your shirt, realizing that you’ve left the room without a key, and you’re about to blast it open anyway when the door opens and Harry rushes out, half-dressed and clearly coming after you. He stops, one arm through the sleeve of his shirt, his pyjama bottoms barely holding on, his feet bare, his eyes wild with a desperate burning that you feel as much as see.  
  
“ _Ron._ ” It’s barely a whisper.  
  
“ _Harry!_ ” and the Bond hums between you, the pull so strong that it’s all you can do to step forward into his arms.  
  
“I’m sorry, sorry-”  
  
“No, I’m sorry, I should never have-”  
  
“Can’t do it without you, Ron-”  
  
“Harry-”   
  
And his kisses are desperate, he’s clawing at your back, holding you so close there’s never the thought of anything between you. Your blood sears at the touch of his skin, and the want in you… How you want him! He stumbles backwards as you guide both of you to the bed, falling onto it in a careless jumble of limbs. It’s a mirror of this morning, only the passion burns brightly and true, and you bite and lick at his neck as he pulls your shirt off, barely pausing to remove his own before Vanishing the lot. You groan as you finally feel all of him, warm flushed skin sliding against yours as you kiss him deeply, your hand under the small of his back as you kiss down his chest and down his stomach to his cock, hard, leaking,  _yours._  He spreads his legs and you nestle there, burying your face in his groin and rubbbing your nose against the base of his cock. The need to have him is almost overpowering and you cradle his cock with one hand as you run your tongue up the side to the tip, licking a long hard stripe across it. Harry cries out, bucking into your mouth even as you hold his hips down, raising both his legs to his chest and positioning yourself at his entrance. You’ve barely the presence of mind to slick your cock and his entrance, but his moan and arched back tell you that you’ve done it properly. His eyes are fever-bright as he spreads his legs even wider, begging you with face and voice and body and magic. You push against him gently, the tip of your cock holding for a long agonized moment against his tight ring of muscle. There’s a long moment of stillness, even as the Bond clamours for completion, and then Harry exhales and your cock slips inside. He cries out, as do you, the joining of your bodies the beginning of a completion that taken you decades to realize and finally accept. You slide into him slowly, carefully, even though all you want to do is claim and be claimed, and soon Harry is making tiny movements, trying to raise his pelvis and coerce you deeper.  
  
You lean into him and slide inexorably home, your cock deep inside him, firmly seated. You both breathe together, eyes fixed on each other, hearts beating and echoing as one. He wraps his legs around the small of your back and thrusts upwards with his hips, giving you all the signal you need to start moving inside him.  
  
The heat and friction is so intense, the feeling like nothing else ever. A steady hum sounds in the room, a vibration heralding the joining of two magics, the cementing of a Bonding, and you thrust into Harry as he arches up to meet you, his mouth open,  _oh, oh, oh, Ron_ , eyes wide,  _yeah, God_ , never looking away,  _fuck, Ron_ , never breaking contact,  _ah, Jesus, yeah._  
  
He’s gripping you harder, almost enough to hurt, and you lower yourself onto your elbows, either side of his shoulders and kiss him deeply, with as much passion as your body fucks him,  _Fuck, Harry_ , and you’re close, so close,  _fuck, fuck, Merlin!_  and he’s crying out into your mouth as he comes, his body clenching around your cock and the burst of magic dragging your orgasm out of you as you empty yourself into him.  
  
A crescendo of light and emotion, of sheer magical power bursts through you combined with Phoenix song, and you’re left with a feeling of completeness that you’d never dreamed possible. You’re still kissing Harry, you can’t stop, nor do you want to, desperate kisses that gradually slow to soft, languid, lazy kisses, raw passion still there but banked.  
  
You both try to catch your breath and he barks out a short laugh.  
  
“I guess you wanted it then?”  
  
There’s amusement in his voice and you have to laugh at yourself for doubting him, for allowing yourself to be so convinced of the wrong thing.  
  
He’s right. You can feel it in the deepest parts of you that he’s right, that the Bond will sort itself out, and that there’s nowhere better for you both to be right now than together.  
  
  
Later that day you venture down to Lafitte’s to let Gus in on your theory.  
  
“Gus, we think that there’s a convergence of magic here. Bourbon St is a major ley line and there may be a sort of magical conflict with the ghost and whatever else has come through. The Katrina disaster probably destabilized the ancient protective spells put in place and they’ve continued to erode over time.”  
  
“Okay, but Katrina was years ago, and it affected the east, and the Lower 9th Ward. The French Quarter was relatively undamaged.”  
  
Harry points to the map. “Sure, but see here; the ley lines don’t only run along Bourbon Street. The Mississippi River is a major player in the supernatural, and as New Orleans sits at the mouth of the river, the city aligns and connects like nothing else. It’s literally a river that joins all as one.”  
  
“Jesus, so what do we do?”  
  
“Well, it’s more what do  _we_  do. Harry and I are going to try to separate the native magic from your ghost and whatever else has become entwined with them both.”  
  
“That’s- that sounds dangerous.”  
  
Harry grins, and you love him so much for it.  
  
“Sure, but what’s life without a little danger?”  
  
You glance at Gus, who looks sceptical. “What Harry means is that we’re used to being in dangerous magical situations, so we’ll be cautious, but we’re fairly certain that we’ve got this covered.”  
  
Gus still doesn’t seem completely convinced, but he nods, and that’s enough for you.  
  
“Right, so we’ll need to close the place. The nexus is getting stronger and we don’t want Muggles caught in the crossfire.”  
  
“You’ll need to be here, Gus, in case of, y’know, anything.”  
  
“Hell yeah, it’s my place!”  
  
You laugh at his bluster, but he immediately sets about posting notices on the door. You’ve agreed to come back in a few hours, giving him enough time to get the word out about closing and yourselves enough time to finalize the plan.  
  
You return around 3pm and all is readiness. All the doors have been shut and bolted, the windows boarded up and sealed. Gus tells you that it’s hurricane preparedness, and you’d have to admit that it’s come in handy.  
  
Harry walks the perimeter of the bar, examining the walls as they meet with the ceiling and with the floor.  
  
“Hey, Gus, is there anything of Lafitte’s still on the premises? Even the smallest trinket or something he might have had on him.”  
  
“There’s a small box with some stuff in it, yeah, mostly old papers though, and I’ve had those sealed in archival-quality plastic sleeves in order to preserve them. You’ve seen them, though, haven’t you? They’re in the large frame over the bar.”  
  
A quick glance shows the frame in question, but Harry shakes his head.  
  
“No, we need something more substantial than that.”  
  
Gus excuses himself and heads up the stairs while you double-check the feel of the wards. Harry’s wandwork is always so impressive, and these are particularly careful and particularly strong spells. You can’t help the shiver of pleasure that rides up your spine at the feel of his magic cloaking the room and everything in it.  
  
Gus returns with a small wooden box, the tiny bronze hinges and latch darkened with age. Inside is a tiny bent nail with a flat head and a couple of large silver coins.  
  
“Pieces of eight, those are, and rumoured to be among items left in his room on the last ship he commandeered. I don’t know what became of his treasure, but if I had to bank on something being his personally, this would be it. Probably.”  
  
You pick up a coin, the surface oddly irregular, the embossing still visible after so long. There’s the slightest tingle of magic there too, only felt at the very tips of your fingers, but you think it’ll be enough. You can see that Harry’s felt the same thing with the coin he’s holding. It’ll have to do.  
  
It takes Harry over ten minutes to cast the containment enchantments plus anti-blast and anti-scatter spells on the walls leading to the outside as well as support and protective wards for the actual building itself. In the meanwhile, you and Gus move all the furniture into a corner near the entrance and you ward the area as best you can given the squirrelly nature of the existing magic.  
  
Gus takes his position behind the fireplace and you cast the strongest protection spells you can over him.  
  
With a coin each in your hands, you and Harry stand side by side facing the corner near the fireplace and together you begin to weave the phalanx of spells.  
  
First, you build on the existing ancient enchantments, taking care to match their feel and structure as best you can. Harry will send his magic deeper, feeling out the root of the binding spells and attempting to sever them. You’d both discussed the possibility of that approach failing if the timbre of the existing magic is too different or too savage to meld with your own, and there’s the very real danger of the entire building collapsing with all three of you in it.  
  
You send your spells across a wider margin now, enhancing their reach and layering them over and through each other. Your magic stutters for a moment and then holds firm, and slowly the new wards mesh with the existing ancient magic laid down by the first wizard settlers of the area. You can feel the earth through your wand, the almost physical evidence of the ley lines as they connect you to a wider network of a greater spiritual community, and you feel it as a living soul, lungs and blood, voice and song, mountains and rivers in an unheard yet deeply felt expression of life.  
  
Through all of that weaves Harry’s magic, careful yet so powerful, a thin blade that excises with precision, cutting through the discordant strands of magical energy and setting free the harmonious spirit of the city itself.  
  
You hear a distant wailing noise, nothing you can identify; nothing you’ve ever heard has made that sound, and Harry’s eyes are fixed on an ever-darkening spot growing at the base of the walls in the corner. The sound deepens, becoming more desperate, hungrier, and you break out in sweat, the physical and magical effort of keeping your spellcasting calm and even is taking its toll on you. A quick glance at Harry shows he’s faring little better, but his wand arm is steady, and so far, your combined efforts seem to be successful.  
  
The dark energy is fighting back, its wailing now clearly audible and growing louder. The darkened spot, now as large as your Dad’s Ford Anglia, shimmers as the very air around it seems to waver. Your part is complete and you slowly ease yourself out of the earth magic, moving closer to Harry, your shoulders touching as you attempt to enclose the darkness that Harry is cutting free.  
  
It’s too late, and for a fraction of a second, everything is chaos as a huge gaping hole rips open in the wall before you, and unbearably dank air rushes past. A vaguely arachnid-like creature stirs just inside the darkness and you feel the biting chill of horror inside your bones as you step back, pulling Harry behind you, your wand in position, defensive and protective spells already decorating the room. Harry is equally quick to action as he whirls in front of you, hand outstretched, and a burst of pure magic rips out of him and combines with yours. The word ‘NO!’ is implicit in the magic; you feel it down to your core, as though every part of your body understands his will.  
  
The creature falls back, shrieking, and your joined magic intensifies, a warmth spreading through you that feels as though there’s new life breathed into you, as though you’re sharing a new life, and, you suppose, you are. You also feel the echoes of New Orleans herself, and her rejection of this foul dark energy. Together, you’re able to condense the darkness and enclose it in the magic-dampening containment system perfected by Hermione for the Aurors and Unspeakables. Harry keeps the spells forcefully down on the device as you perform the series of locking enchantments and then you both lower your wands and slowly turn to survey the damage.  
  
Gus is already moving through the rubble which seems to be fairly minimal, considering the size of the creature and the hole still in the wall. You’re able to close up most of it by setting new wards on his property, once more aligning yourself with the magic of the city and clarifying the level of protections and support given to the structure. The magic seems to agree with you, and the spells flow effortlessly from your wand. You repair the opening in the wall and the bar is set to rights in fairly quick time. Harry reinforces the wards on the upper part of the structure, and binds his magic to yours for extra protection against unkind spirits.  
  
Already the place feels lighter and happier, and Gus busies himself taking down the storm shutters and opening the doors to the outside. Although it seems like a long time has passed, a glance at the clock puts the time at just past seven o’clock. Just in time for drinks!  
  
You don’t really want to drink tonight, though, and from the way Harry’s catching your eye, you’d surmise that he doesn’t want to either. There’s a strange energy humming inside you, like a continuous adrenaline rush that doesn’t abate, a quickening of your heartbeat and a feeling of inevitability.  
  
You can feel his magic coursing through you, settling into the spaces you’d never known you had, melding seamlessly with everything that you are. He’s flushed with excitement and effort, breathing still a bit irregular, his hair a mess. It’s a good look on him and you can’t tear your eyes away. You realize that it’s not just the post-battle buzz that has him that way though, it’s you; well, it’s him and you, together, the Bond settling and maturing.   
  
Gus comes over and slaps you both on the shoulders.  
  
“Guys, hey, that was a little insane! Thanks for doing that, wow, I can’t imagine you having a job that deals with this kind of thing all the time! Listen, whenever you’re in town, drinks are always on the house, okay?”  
  
Your grin matches Harry’s – it’s a safe bet that you’ll both never partake of that damned purple drink again!  
  
“Sure, Gus, thanks,” Harry says, finally breaking eye contact with you to shake Gus’ hand. “Not all of our jobs entail this level of crazy, though.”  
  
“Still, man, wow. So how do I settle up with you?” He offers you his hand, and you shake firmly.  
  
“Lisa will be in touch. I’ll have her send the bill by Mug- uh, by post if that’s okay?”  
  
“Yeah, man, that’s fine.” A few people have walked through the doors, and it seems as though Gus is going to get right back into the swing of things. “Hey, let me head over there and tend to the customers.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah, mate, sure. We’re- we’re just gonna take a walk for a while, clear our heads a bit.”  
  
“Great. Don’t be a stranger, y’hear!”  
  
  
You both walk along the middle of Bourbon Street, sort-of-moving in time with the music amid the crowd of partygoers and other revellers. Harry’s just been ogled by one guy too many and you’ve tried really hard not to be bothered by it. He, of course, is oblivious to all the stares and leers, but there’s a new possessiveness that you feel towards him that makes it difficult not to demonstrate, and you impulsively grab his hand, slowing his forward motion.  
  
He turns to look at you, his arm extended where you’re holding hands, still grinning as he’s been doing for most of your jaunt down Bourbon Street. His face is alight and happy and free for maybe the first time in forever, it seems. You can remember the few times you’ve seen Harry truly happy, not tempered by war or near-death or because he thinks he should be; this is happiness at its purest. You’d like to think that you’ve both found happiness here.  
  
“Ron!” he says, his voice low, and you just love the way Harry says your name, the slight emphasis on the ‘n’ making it sound so complete, so definite.  
  
“C’mere, mate,” you grin as you reel him in, enjoying the firmness of his grip and his solidness as he bumps up against you. He’s grinning up at you, and you secretly love being bigger than him, not so much that you loom over him, but for all that he has in sheer magical power and courage, physically, he doesn’t reflect that.  
  
He wraps his free arm around your waist, all laughter and shining eyes and you both stumble to a stop as the crowd parts around you. The music is ongoing and all encompassing, the laughter and gaiety a perfect accompaniment to the way you feel. There’s loud shouting above you, and you look up at the crowds gathered on the balconies of the bars, and there are loads of men and women dangling strings of colourful beads in their outstretched hands. You look around to realize that you’re in the middle of a large group of people who seem to be trying to get the attention of the people on the balcony.  
  
“Show us your tits!” one of the women shouts down to the gathering in the road, and amid hoots and laughter, many people around you, both men and women, lift their shirts, blouses, whatever, showing off their chests to loud applause and cheering. Soon there’s a rain of bead garlands, and you laugh as they jump and reach for the shiny things.  
  
You look down at Harry, and he’s still loose and easy and grinning and just enjoying himself so much, and you wish that you could capture this feeling, this exact combination of events, even as your heart beats faster having him pressed against you.  
  
You barely hear the partiers on the balcony with their latest request “Kisses! We want to see kisses!!! Let’s go, people, somebody kiss somebody!” when suddenly Harry isn’t smiling any more, he seems very serious as he reaches up to your neck, up into your hair and  _pulls_  you down, gently, yes, but without hesitation.  
  
Your eyes flutter half-closed despite the crashing of emotion and adrenaline through your body, but he’s closer now than ever, the frenzied shouts of ‘Kisses! C’mon, kiss, kiss’ floating around you, and you’re standing out there in public in the middle of the street and Harry’s not taken his eyes off your mouth, and oh, fuck, this is-  
  
There’s a moment of perfect stillness as his lips meet yours, one crystal clear second that encompasses a lifetime, and you moan, you can’t help it, your body shuddering even as your arms wrap around him, anchoring you both to each other.   
  
You fist one hand into his ridiculous mop of hair while the other grips his arse, squeezing  _very_ possessively as you pull him flush against you. His moan of surprise makes your already-hard cock throb, and it’s all you can do to not fuck him where you stand.  
  
After forever, you pull apart, taking in huge gulps of air even though you’re still plastered to each other. The screaming and shouting and cheering all around you gradually filters back in, and you feel the wash of Harry’s  _Muffliato_  as it dissipates. His non-verbal spells have always made you sit up and take notice, and fuck, does he have to be even more attractive than he already is?  
  
“Did we… just do that in the middle of Bourbon Street?”  
  
His grin is incandescent.  
  
“Looks so. How about when we get back home we do that in the middle of Diagon Alley?”  
  
“You’re joking.”  
  
“About us, Ron? Never. Besides, half of Wizarding Britain thinks we’re together.”  
  
“They do NOT!”  
  
He laughs. “Maybe not, but they will soon enough. That is, if you’re okay with it.”  
  
Your face feels as though it will split with the force of your grin, and you’re happier than you ever thought you could be.  
  
“You know, it takes a certain kind of magic to keep a man like me happy, Harry.”  
  
“Oh, I think we’ve got what it takes.”  
  
You don’t have a reply as he’s kissing you again, the crowd continues to dance around and past you, and nothing in this world could be better than the certain kind of magic of this moment.  
  
~ fin ~

**Author's Note:**

> Laffite’s is a real bar. So too is Oz the gay nightclub. They, however, are not joined by a wall or any other structure, but are both on Bourbon Street.
> 
> I may have played fast and loose with the ancient magic of New Orleans and the principles of ley lines in general.
> 
> The song that Harry strips to at Oz is Michael Bublé’s cover of Nina Simone’s “Feeling Good”  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yYe6tmrFxbw


End file.
